


Only Things of Beauty Burn

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Development, Dirty Thoughts, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Previous Sexual Encounters, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Smoking, Some Misogynistic Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29282670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: Stuck living a fast life, Sandor Clegane meets a devout young woman who commits herself to helping him change his ways.*Modern Westeros
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 96
Kudos: 103





	1. A Better Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm so excited to share this story with you all. The idea has been simmering in my mind for months and I think now is the perfect time to get the ball rolling. 
> 
> What you can expect: A slow-burn romance, angst, FEELS, smut (duh), and **a happy ending** (the first part will have you thinking this ends tragically, but I promise it doesn't!). However, the angst will be real. This story is about two people (SanSan, of course) coming together from two very different walks of life and learning from one another. 
> 
> I do my best to tag any potential triggers beforehand. If ever you see anything that was not tagged but you think it should be, please let me know. Never, ever hesitate. Your well-being is my top priority and I just want y'all to enjoy this adventure with me. ♥
> 
> More things: Sansa Stark practices the Faith of the Seven in this story, as does Beric Dondarrion. I am deliberately choosing to ignore some canon things in order to make this story work to fit my vision. Don't worry about reminding me that Beric converted to R'hllor's religion in canon. Trust me, I totally know haha. 
> 
> Also, please bear with me when it comes to some of the religious jargon in this fic. I am using bits and pieces of what GRRM gave us about the Faith of the Seven, but I am also using bits and pieces from traditional Catholic/Christian religious practices. Disclaimer: I am basically a dunce when it comes to some of these things, but I really am trying to make this feel authentic in this particular setting. Let's all just giggle at my ignorance and go with the flow. (However, if you notice any glaring errors on my end, feel free to (kindly) let me know.)
> 
> As always, I write what I want to explore, but I also want to be upfront with you all before we hop on this angsty romance train. 
> 
> I'm very excited to get this one started! 
> 
> Enjoy! ♥
> 
> Inspired by [Things of Beauty Burn by Hammock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TlcjPPuIMY)

_**Sandor** _

_I once knew a woman who told me that only things of beauty burn._

_I laughed in her face and told her, “Everything burns.”_

_That was when she held my hand, for the very first time._

_“Everything is beautiful,” she said to me, while gazing at my scars. “Everything, and everyone.”_

_And that was all it took - a few words, a touch, and a look._

_That was all it took for me to fall in love._

_Beautiful love, and burning._

  
  


* * *

  
  
The seven hells were cold and wet, smelling vaguely of lavender. 

Eyes closed, head spinning in the darkness, two clenched hands underneath his arms dragged him along a smooth floor. Footsteps rang as cacophonous as bells, echoing inside some hollow, drafty space. _Which hell is this?_ Sandor wondered, conscious, yet limp as a corpse. Although he supposed that was what he was - a corpse.

Dead, finally.

“This is ludicrous,” he heard a man squawk, just as the hand on his left arm grew tighter than a steel trap. “Absolutely _ludicrous_. This is a place of worship, not a homeless shelter.”

“Take him over there,” a soft voice said, a pretty voice, too pretty to belong to a demon in hell. “The very last row.”

Preceded by two loud grunts of exertion, the two hands pivoted him and pulled. His head smacked against what sounded like wood, though it felt more granite with how his temple pulsated afterward. Sandor’s cracked lips split open upon the impact, allowing a pained groan to pass.

“Mind his head!” The pretty voice shrieked.

“Too late.” 

With his eyes still closed, Sandor could hear the humor in the _ludicrous_ man’s tone, rousing his rage from its drunken slumber. The two hands released him after propping him up against what felt like a bar. A chill made him shiver. 

“Appreciate the help, Anguy. I would have never gotten this unconscious derelict in the pews by myself.”

“How can you say something so cruel?” asked the girl. “What were we supposed to do, leave him outside in the storm?”

“You sympathize too much. He’s a drunk. We can all smell it on him. And gods be good...look at his face. Is that his _jawbone_ that I can see?”

When the pretty voice went silent for a short while, Sandor knew why. This girl, whoever she was, demon or angel, was looking at him, studying him, staring at the side of his face that had already visited hell once before. Soon he would hear a gasp of horror and disgust, or maybe the girl would only begin to cry; that would certainly be nothing new. 

Too fatigued to move, Sandor succumbed to the eyes burning into him and listened to the soft noises in the distance. Footsteps, chatter, and was that...singing? Maybe he was in some purgatory. Maybe the _ludicrous_ prick and his appreciated pal Anguy were taking a breather before they would drag him a little further and toss him into some burning pit. 

Anticipation grew when he heard a sigh, a single puff of air. Even it was pretty. “They’re just scars,” she finally said, to his surprise. “Honestly, how do you sleep at night?”

“Comfortably.”

A low rumble of thunder matched Sandor’s rising temper. It was time to give the _ludicrous_ smartass a beating. 

Opening his eyes was a grim mistake. The light, though dim, made his head damn near explode. Sitting slumped with his head hanging back, Sandor blinked his irritated eyes and watched a gold dome spin overhead. Lightning flashed through the massive stained glass windows, followed by a roar of thunder. He closed his eyes slowly, on the verge of becoming sick, not because he was in the throes of the worst hangover of his life, but because he realized where he was, and let out a sickly, wet laugh.

A foot nudged his leg. “Sir? What’s your name? Hello?” Sandor opened one eye and observed a young man with dark blonde hair standing above him wearing a frown. “Do you understand what I’m saying, or do I need to call the police?”

“Enough, Harry,” said the pretty voice, but Sandor could not yet lift his head to see who it belonged to. “Why don’t you and Anguy find the septon and grab a few towels from the storage closet?”

The asshat named Harry looked away from him and towards the source of the voice. “What, and leave you alone with _him_?”

“I wouldn’t be alone, people are arriving for service.”

“Gods be good, you’re the Mother incarnate,” the prick mumbled to himself. Another flash of lightning lit up the dim nave, followed by a more menacing rumble of thunder. “Fine, have it your way. Let’s go, Anguy.” Harry glowered down at him once more, not knowing that was a death wish, and then turned away.

Sandor continued to stare up at the glass and gold dome, flashes of lightning brightening up the dark sky instead of the sun. As the men’s footsteps receded, softer ones grew nearer, and the scent of lavender stronger.

After a deep roll of thunder shook the ground beneath him, a porcelain face appeared above him, framed by thick, wavy russet hair. The striking sight quickened the blood flowing languidly in his veins, giving him just enough energy to lift up his head and rub his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

Convinced he was only hallucinating, he nearly startled when he lowered his hands and found the girl knelt down just beside him.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, that same pretty voice soothing his ears.

He did not know the answer to that, not while looking at her heart shaped face, her small button nose, her inquisitive blue eyes that were brighter than the bolts of lightning striking just outside the mosaic window behind her. Sandor had never seen someone so...clean, so...perfect. Unreal is what she was, wearing a long sleeved dress of ivory lace that made her look like a damsel straight out of a fucking romance novel. 

The sept, the girl, the sound of small voices singing in the distance...no, this couldn’t be hell.

Throat dry and lungs on fire, Sandor took in a deep breath. His voice sounded like that belonging to a corpse when he asked, “Am I in heaven?”

She covered her mouth and coughed, but even then he could see her fighting back a smile. “No, you’re not in heaven,” she said kindly. “You’re in the Sept of Baelor. We found you sleeping on the steps in the rain.”

_The Sept of Baelor? How the fuck…_

Sandor looked down at his clothes. His jeans and shirt were saturated with water. Little wonder he felt a chill. Had she not said something, he might have never noticed. Sandor heard murmurs coming from his right and turned his aching neck. Fancily dressed sept-goers were entering through a wide crystal archway and glancing over in their direction, doubtlessly judging his unkempt appearance. 

_Fucking zealots._

He looked away and then ran his fingers through his damp hair, combing it to his left side, his burned side, to spare the girl of the hideous sight. _‘They’re just scars’,_ she had said, but Sandor knew she was only being polite. A pretty thing like her would only know how to be polite.

When he checked his soggy pockets, he discovered that his phone was missing. That was the second time that month. He had to refrain from kicking the wooden bench in front of him to a pulp.

He cleared his throat, wincing. “What time is it?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her read the dainty watch wrapped around her daintier wrist. “Half past seven,” she answered, then folded her hands in her lap with all the grace in the world. “Is there anyone we can call for you? Do you have family nearby?”

Her perpetual graciousness was beginning to irritate him, as arrested by her looks as he was. Sandor shook his head. “No family.”

“Oh,” said the girl, suddenly sounding melancholy. “A friend, then?”

 _Did_ he have a friend? Did drug dealers count? Strippers? The other scum of Westeros who helped him hit a lick from time to time? He doubted this graceful, pretty, talking girl would think so. 

“None of those either,” Sandor finally grumbled. He couldn’t remember shit from last night, not after finishing off that second bottle of Dornish whiskey. Avoiding her gaze, he said, “I’m fine. I’ll walk.”

Sandor reached out and grabbed onto the back of the bench in front of him, the wood creaking as he pulled himself up to standing. Suddenly, the seven giant statues that surrounded the perimeter of the chancel were dancing around him and the graceful, pretty, talking girl. He lost his balance and fell back, fortunate enough to land on the bench behind him, then groaned.

“Are you alright?” the girl gasped as she stood up from the marble floor, still so graceful. 

Why was everything she did so graceful? The more graceful she was, the more acutely aware he became of all his flaws. His long, _long_ list of flaws. Is that what this was? The gods getting a good laugh out of putting something so perfect and tantalizing in front of him just to remind him of what he could never have?

Incensed and unsmiling, he looked at her. “I said I was fine, didn’t I?”

She clutched a hand to her breasts, drawing his eyes right to them. Not even her romantic, modest, loose-fitting dress could hide the fact that her tits would be a perfect handful.

“I-I’m sorry,” she faltered. A loud clap of thunder startled her all over again, still so vexingly graceful. “Y-you should stay. It wouldn’t be safe to walk in this weather.”

That almost made him laugh out loud. Taking a five mile hike during a storm would be the safest thing he did in years. “Stay for what? _Service_?” The mere thought made him want to vomit in the pew. “I haven’t gone to service since I was a boy.” 

“Well, you’re already here,” she mused, as she played with a lock of her auburn hair. “You could at least wait out the storm.”

Sandor snorted, shamelessly wringing out his wet shirt onto the floor. “You want me to stay that bad, do you?”

A jolt of adrenaline shot into his veins when he noticed her cheeks turn bright red because of his words. Or maybe that was because he had just lifted up his shirt halfway to squeeze out the water. Either way, her bewildered stare was doing something to him.

After a short silence passed between them, she said, “I just...I’m sorry. I never did ask you for your name.”

He eyed her suspiciously, then he eyed her yearningly. Fuck, he wanted her right there in the sept. She probably took dick gracefully, too. He wanted to bend her over the bench and fuck her brains out right in front of the Maiden and Mother. 

But when he found himself eyeing her lecherously, he quickly looked away. He didn’t even know how old this girl was. Younger than him, that was abundantly obvious. It would be just like the gods to taunt him with a girl who only looked old enough to leer at. Why did she care to know his name in the first place? Why did she care if he was sleeping outside in a storm? This was a trap, and he was not about to fall for it, not even in the midst of his worst hangover.

“Sir?”

His eyes shot up, powerless against that voice, that pretty voice. She did not look frightened by him, only sad. A feeling washed over him, one in which was practically foreign to him. Guilt, he realized, for snapping at her earlier, and for his depraved intrusive thoughts.

Sandor cleared his throat. “It’s-”

“Clegane,” a familiar and far less pleasant voice echoed inside the sept, “is that really you?”

A roll of thunder built the suspense. Sandor looked in the direction of the voice and watched as a ghost strolled down the aisle. 

Running a hand slowly down his face, Sandor grumbled, “Seven fucking hells.”

A pretty gasp followed. Sandor returned his attention to the girl, her blue eyes large and her small hands covering her mouth; _now_ she was looking at him with fear. He felt equal parts guilty and amused by her response. That was how she reacted to a curse? To a simple curse? He wanted to do it again, intrigued. Despite himself, a smile tugged on the corner of his lips, the corner that was not marred by flame.

The ghost approached, carrying a towel and a glass of water. Sandor hoped he’d slip on the puddle of water beneath him, but he stopped just short of it. 

Beric Dondarrion smiled warmly at the girl. “Sansa, would you mind giving an old friend and I a moment to talk alone?”

Sandor would have tossed his head back and laughed at the old friend part had he not become so fixated on the name.

_Sansa._

It reverberated inside his head again and again and again, drowning out the sound of the zealots' irksome footsteps and murmurs.

_Sansa._

_Sansa._

_Sansa._

He looked at her and put the pretty name to an even prettier face.

_Sansa. What a name._

Sansa nodded her head, graceful, so fucking graceful, then said, “Of course, Septon.” She regarded him once more, clearly wary now after hearing him curse, but smiled amiably nonetheless. “I hope you have a better day,” she told him, just before turning around and walking away.

_A better day?_

That time he did laugh. 

_There’s no such thing._

It was magnetic, how his gaze was drawn to the soft, natural sway of her hips, watching the hair cascading down her back match the rhythm, shining like copper as she passed by the candles in front of the Maiden’s altar. When he began to undress her with his eyes, he dropped his head. He might know her name, but her age remained a mystery.

“I thought you moved back to the Westerlands,” said Dondarrion, as he sat beside him in a crisp suit of all white, save for his rainbow collar. Even the patch over his right eye was immaculately white. 

_I’m not in heaven,_ he thought. _I’m in the seven hells, after all._

Sandor grunted and snatched the towel from his hand. “I did. For a time.”

Beric set the glass of water down between them on the bench. “It’s been years since I saw you last. Ten, if my memory serves me right.”

After drying himself off as best as he could, he tossed the towel onto the ground and considered the man sitting beside him, sneering. “A septon now, are you? Seven hells, I thought you died,” said Sandor, wishing it were true. “A bullet in the eye kills most men.”

“And it killed me, too,” Beric declared solemnly. “I _did_ die. And only in death did I learn the truth. Only in death did I learn how to appreciate life.”

Sandor laughed so loud the zealots entering the sept gave him an even stranger look. Poetic talkers always had a way of making him laugh with their bullshit. “Ever learn who shot you while you took a tour through hell?”

Dondarrion gave a long sigh. “Living fast...it will catch up with you. It did for me.” As he spoke, he fidgeted with the large ring on his finger, a crystal ring with seven sides. “I once thought I was invincible. But then I met the Mother, the Father...”

“The Stranger?” Sandor interrupted, chuckling into the cup of water. He quaffed it down and then let the glass fall onto the marble ground. To his displeasure, it did not break. “Meet him too, Dondarrion?”

Unprovoked, Beric picked up the glass and set it on the bench. “Him, too.”

“So you died and they brought you back, is that it? What makes you so goddamn special?”

He thought the undead septon would have scolded him for cursing inside his gaudy place of worship, but Beric only laughed. “I’m not special by any means. I’m only a man. An ordinary man who means to devote his life to the Seven, to the gods who have given me a second chance. We’re all ordinary, Clegane.” Beric pointed to the altar beside them, the Mother. “It is the gods who are special, and the gods alone.”

His eyes gravitated to the vibrant auburn shade near the sept’s pulpit and observed Sansa standing next to the _ludicrous_ prick named Harry as they greeted a pair of pompously dressed sept-goers. It did not matter if the sun was hidden behind the thick storm clouds. Her smile was more brilliant than any beam of sun, more stunning than even the giant glittering seven pointed star that hung above her.

Sandor only meant to steal a glance, but it was like pulling teeth trying to look away from something so beautiful. That’s what she was, no fucking point in dying it any longer. Of legal age or not, she was beautiful. More beautiful than anything or anyone he had ever seen before. Enamored by her and yet simultaneously enraged by her perfection, it came as no surprise to him when he heard Beric starting to tsk. 

“Oh, Clegane.”

Only then could Sandor look away and shoot the septon a dark look. “Oh, _what_?”

“Do not mistake kindness for affection. Sansa would have helped anyone in your position.”

He snorted, though he would have rather decked Dondarrion in his one good eye. “You think I’m checking her out? A girl that young? What is she, sixteen, seventeen?” Sandor just might join the zealots and pray to the Seven for that not to be the case. “How old is she anyway?”

Beric frowned; he saw right through that. “No, Clegane” he said, caution heavy in his tone. “No.” He looked ahead and gave another low sigh. “Will you be staying for service this morning?”

Sandor folded his arms over his damp, cold shirt. “Might wait out the storm inside your sept.”

“You should listen while you wait,” the septon suggested, fidgeting with his ring again. “Listen, and maybe-”

“There’s no fixing me, Dondarrion,” Sandor grizzled, his head throbbing worse than it had when it hit the bench. “There’s people like you, and then there’s people like me.” He thrust a finger into Beric’s chest. “Saints,” he spat, just before poking his own chest, “and sinners.”

That didn’t faze him either. It would have ten years ago, but it was beginning to seem like there was nothing Sandor could do to get a reaction out of this once dead man. Instead, Beric shook his head, his reddish-golden hair shaking with it, and looked ahead as the benches filled up with more naive followers of the Seven. 

“I may be a septon now,” Dondarrion began, “but hardly does that make me a saint. You remember how we were when we were young - you, me, Lannister, Thoros. We’re all sinners, Clegane. All of us.”

 _Everyone, except her,_ thought Sandor, glancing over to where Sansa now sat in the front row.

“Even her,” Beric asserted, all knowing, before rising from the bench. He smoothed out his pristine white coat and then tugged on each cuff, the links iridescent. “It’s never too late, you know.”

Sandor frowned at him. “Never too late for what? Never too late to worship false gods? Never too late to tell myself all the shit I’ve gone through is _for a reason_?”

Unbothered by the venom in his voice, Dondarrion smiled. “I’d say you falling asleep outside the sept was for a reason.” Just before walking away, Beric added, “You heard the young lady. It’s never too late to have a better day.”

There the words were again, echoing in his mind, louder than the zealots greeting their undead septon as he passed by, driving Sandor mad.

_A better day...a better day...a better day..._

_There’s no such fucking thing._

When Sandor looked at the girl, he caught her stealing a glance at him over her shoulder. As soon as their eyes met, she quickly turned back around. For once, she looked more nervous than graceful. For once.

_A better day….a better day...a better day…_

Gods, it would not stop, those three words antagonizing him to no end. It was like being forced to listen to a little bird chirp, chirp, chirp, as it sat perched on a branch outside his window while he tried to sleep.

_A better day._

Sandor kicked the empty pew in front of him, not only out of anger, but in an effort to grab the little bird’s attention as she sat perched on her bench. She didn’t notice. She was too busy talking to ludicrous Harry to notice. That only worsened his rage, though he could not say why. 

As wind howled, lightning cracked, thunder rumbled, and rain pattered dismally on the dome, Sandor eyed the girl in the front row and thought, _Privileged, pretty little bird, you don’t know the world. There are no better days. None._

But it didn’t matter what he thought, the echoes in his mind were incessant.

_A better day….a better day...a better day…_

He had more than enough of the chirping and slammed his boots onto the marble before standing up. She looked at him then, as did Dondarrion who was making his rounds of the seven altars, but he couldn’t read their expressions, not when the dusky sept started spinning round and round. 

Sandor pushed off the bench and made for the exit, the Mother’s statue swaying as he stumbled towards the entrance hall. The lamps, hundreds of colored glass orbs that hung from the vaulted ceiling of the long hall, only worsened his vertigo. And the words, those damning words, they went on and on. 

_A better day….a better day...a better day…_

It wasn’t until Sandor punched open the sept’s wide doors did a deafening crash of thunder finally drown out that pretty voice inside his head. 

Eyes closed, head spinning in the darkness, Sandor lurched forward and collapsed onto the marble steps in the pouring rain. 


	2. Prayer and Faith

**_Sansa_ **

_“Lust is a sin._

_It does not come from the gods, but from the world._

_Do not conform to the world._

_Devils will approach as desire in the flesh, seeking to corrupt you._

_But submit yourself to the gods and those devils will flee.”_

_Maiden 2:1-5_

  
  


_Dear Sandor,_

_I read that passage a hundred times after you left that morning._

_I highlighted it. I underlined it. I whispered it to myself again and again._

_And afterward, I prayed to the Maiden._

_I prayed for forgiveness for what I felt and wondered._

_But then I prayed for something else, too._

_I prayed to the Mother that someday I might see you again._

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The fierce and unexpected storm had subsided shortly before noon, yet the more harrowing burden of her guilt lingered.

Mindful of the flame, Sansa lit a candle and placed it beside the many others on the Maiden’s altar before sitting on the nearest bench. For a moment, she did nothing but watch the soft candlelight dance on the gilded statue before her. Her shame festered. Sansa reached inside the high neckline of her dress and pulled out the dainty glittering seven-pointed star pendant hanging around her neck. A few others inside the nave were murmuring soft prayers, some were even weeping. Sansa picked up the holy text and placed it in her lap, opening it to the Book of the Maiden, chapter two.

 _'Lust is a sin',_ she read, hammering the four words into her brain. She could feel the Maiden’s disappointed stare and closed her eyes.

 _A grown man,_ Sansa chastised herself. _You were having indecent thoughts about a grown man._

A man with no friends or family who went by the name of Clegane; that was all she knew about him. Sansa did not know whether that was a first name or a last, nor could she accurately guess his age based on his wet, frowzy appearance, but he was certainly older than her. Much older. 

This man, whoever he was, was discourteous, not to mention brazenly vulgar. Who would dare utter a curse inside the sept? He was large too, one of the tallest men she had ever seen, and very strong, at least, judging by his build. 

And she had judged his build a lot, looking away from his broad shoulders, only to then steal a glance at his muscled arms. And then again, much lower, when he lifted up his shirt… 

Sansa buried her face in her hands. 

_Lust is a sin. Lust is a sin. Lust is a sin._

It was not the first time she had felt the vicious tug and pull of temptation, but it _was_ the most aggressive. And it did not make any sense to her. Setting aside his disheveled state, Clegane was not conventionally attractive. He had a heavy brow, a large hooked nose, and prominent cheekbones on the side of his face not covered with scars. His dark hair did not grow where he was burnt, and his ear and lips were missing on that side as well. Be that as it may, this man was made in the image of the gods.

 _Or, more specifically, the image of the Warrior,_ she thought.

Sansa chastised herself again.

_Lust is a sin._

Harry had been right about one thing: Clegane _did_ smell of alcohol, and a lot of it. Even so, Sansa was eager to help him as best as she could. She even wanted him to stay for service. Sunday mornings at the sept always lifted her mood, maybe they could for him too. Sansa wondered why he ended up leaving. She also wondered why he laughed after wishing him a better day. What was so amusing about that?

Sansa sighed and bowed her head to the Maiden, repenting.

At eighteen years old, Sansa had never been physically intimate, her hands had never known the touch of another’s, nor her lips. Once, shortly after she moved to the Crownlands to attend the most prestigious religious university in the world, Harry had tried to steal a kiss, but Sansa pulled away just in time. Luckily, for the sake of their friendship, he had apologized for it right after and confessed to the septon, although that was expected of him as the student minister. Despite feeling bemused by the experience, Sansa did forgive him; it was necessary. The topic of forgiveness was expressly written in the Book of the Mother. 

It was simple: forgive, and you shall be forgiven. 

That made her feel better, for a time. But as soon as she opened her eyes, those inappropriate thoughts about the man with one name and no family and friends returned, and her guilt lingered and festered again. 

“Hey Sans.” 

Sansa gasped softly. She had been so lost in her improper thoughts that she never did hear his footsteps approach. Harry sat beside her, close enough for their thighs to touch, and then stretched his arm behind her across the top of the bench.

“What do you say we take a day trip to Rosby?”

His overly pungent cologne was irritating her sinuses, again. Sansa closed her book and sighed. “I can’t today. I need to go home and study.”

“You always study,” Harry remarked, wearing a slight frown. “If you’re not studying, you’re praying, and if you’re not praying, you’re studying.”

She shifted over as subtly as she could, creating an inch of space between them. “Studying and praying are what I need to do if I hope to go on the mission trip to Meereen this summer.”

He grimaced. “Who in their right mind wants to do mission work there?” 

“Me, and I am in my right mind, thank you very much.”

“Oh come on, I didn’t mean it like that, Sans.” As he looked up at the statue before them, his frown deepened. “What are praying to the Maiden for?”

“I pray to all the gods after service, you know this,” Sansa quickly defended herself, not that she owed him an explanation. “Well, all except one.” 

It was not a lie. Every Sunday following the last service, Sansa would pray to each of the gods individually: the Mother, the Father, the Crone, the Warrior, the Smith, and the Maiden. But Sansa never did have a prayer for the seventh: the Stranger. Just looking at the dim altar made her feel ill.

Harry steepled his fingers on the bench. “Did that drunk hit on you?”

She stared at him with wide eyes, his blunt question catching her off guard. “ _What_? No, not at all. He didn’t say much of anything to me. And you really shouldn’t call people drunks. It’s not our place to judge, only to show kindness and mercy.”

“Anyone who chooses to excessively drink to the point of falling asleep outside a holy sept is, by definition, a drunk. I’m not about to pity a man for decisions he willingly makes. ‘Neither drunks, nor thieves, nor adulterers, nor frauds will be given mercy by the gods’. Chapter four, verse eight, Book of the-”

“-Father, I know,” she sighed, fussing with her necklace again.

“If the gods will not show them mercy, why should I?”

Her hand froze on the pendant. Sansa looked him directly in the eye and said, “Because you’re not a god.”

Harry’s expression betrayed displeasure. “Let’s go,” he said as he rose from the bench, breaking the lingering silence. “I’ll take you home.”

She lowered her eyes to the sacred book in her lap. “I don’t mind walking home. I would like to pray a little while longer.”

“To the Maiden,” Harry commented, almost snidely. “Alright, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning for class.”

Relief washed over her the moment he exited the sept, but guilt followed closely behind, making her feel nauseous. It felt as if she was keeping a secret. Well, in a way, she was. Harry remained none the wiser about what shameful feelings the man he called a drunk inspired in her. But why should she feel guilty about that? She did not need to confide in him about everything. Not only was Harry not a god, but he was not the septon either. And even then, she had not done anything deliberately wrong. If that were the case, Sansa would confess at once, but she had no intention of that ever happening. 

Never.

Sansa dug through her purse and pulled out a pencil and a highlighter, then reopened the Seven-Pointed Star.

**_Lust is a sin._ **

There, now it was underlined and bright yellow. It could not be missed. And yet, the thoughts… 

She heard the echoing footsteps that time and looked over to find Septon Beric parting ways with Septa Mordane near the chancel. Only then did Sansa realize that she was the last one inside the nave, which naturally prompted the septon to come visit with her. Sansa did not mind. The septon was always pleasant company, a virtuous man through and through. While Sansa’s father was the most god-fearing man she had ever met, Septon Beric was a close second.

“Good afternoon, Sansa,” he greeted her. “You sang and played very well today.” 

“Thank you, Septon,” she said kindly, suddenly wondering what Clegane would have thought if he stayed long enough to hear her sing or play the piano. Sansa lifted her eyes to where the afternoon sun cast a thousand vibrant colors inside the dome through the stained glass windows. “The weather cleared up nicely.”

“Indeed.” He sat down beside her, but unlike Harry, he gave her plenty of personal space. “Once a tempest, and now perfectly clement. A better day.”

Sansa smiled, but all she could think about was how Clegane laughed at her when she had said those words to him. Sansa’s curiosity got the better of her. While it was not entirely appropriate to ask the septon such a question, she only had good intentions.

“May I ask you a question, Septon Beric?” 

He nodded once, looking ahead at the Maiden. “By all means.”

She swiftly posed the question before she would change her mind. “That man from this morning, who was he?”

The septon looked down at his crystal ring and turned it with his thumb. “An old friend, and a troubled, troubled man. He has experienced more evil in this world than you and I combined, starting from a very young age.”

 _His scars,_ she knew. _Something terrible happened to him, but what?_

Not only did that make her sad, but it hurt. This man was no more than a stranger to her, yet hearing Septon Beric speak about him tugged at her heartstrings. 

“Why did he leave? I thought he might stay.”

“He wasn’t ready,” the septon said plainly. “Some people never are.”

Sansa played with her necklace again, deep in thought. “But...part of our mission is to help men and women from all walks of life, to know the Seven and to make the Seven known.”

He nodded solemnly. “Indeed it is. And while we can share the teachings of the Seven, the decision to accept those teachings lies with the individual and the individual alone. There is no forcing devotion. Dragging a man to sept is an arduous labor, one which seldom bears any fruit.”

She tilted her head. “But why would anyone refuse to be helped?”

“There are many reasons,” Septon Beric began, as he turned to face her with his ever-calm demeanor, “reasons ranging from self-serving to understandable. Some enjoy their sins and do not wish to stop. Others believe it’s too late and that the cause is lost from the start. Some do not believe in the gods and therefore refuse to accept help from institutions of faith. And then there are those who want help, but fear the consequences.”

The sudden melancholy in his voice made her feel ill at ease. “What consequences?”

“Helping someone find their faith is not always a symbiotic effort, I fear. Sometimes when patching up a broken soul, your own can crack and splinter, be that during times of relapse, stubbornness, or failure.” He paused for a moment to wave at Septon Meribald who was entering the transept of the Crone. “Some know this and abstain from asking for help for no other reason than they do not wish to become a burden.”

Once again, her heartstrings were pulled. Sansa wondered which of those reasons applied to the man named Clegane. 

“Then what can we do?” she thought out loud.

“Pray,” Septon Beric responded with a small smile. “We can pray, and we can have faith.” When he took a glance at the book in her lap, Sansa suddenly remembered what page she was on. Abashed, she softly closed the cover. It did not matter, Septon Beric’s shift in demeanor told her all that she needed to know: he saw. Nevertheless, he fixed his rainbow collar and arose from his seat, smiling. “Have a blessed week, Sansa. Say hello to your father for me.”

_Prayer and faith._

Before walking home that afternoon, Sansa lit a candle on the Mother’s altar and said one last prayer.

_Mother, as harsh as he was, help him if you can._

_Help him see that it’s not too late and that better days lie ahead._

_And help him find his way back here._

_Please._

_If what he said is true, he has no family or friends._

_No one should be alone._

_I could be his friend, if he wanted._

_I can pray and have faith._


	3. Hellfire

**_Sandor_ **

_Fire in my veins, that’s what I felt, as I trudged home in the storm of the century._

_I hated her, almost as much as I hated myself._

_Because I wanted her, and every step that I took made me want her more._

_She was hellfire._

_Her voice, her beauty, her purity..._

_I wanted to ruin her._

_I wanted her to see the world the way I saw it._

_I wanted her to hate it worse than I did._

_Let her mourn her fantasy of a better day while I fuck her mercilessly._

_That was what I wanted._

_How, I wondered, could someone so pure rouse such dark thoughts?_

_And why, if they did not want us to sin, did the gods make the devil more powerful than a man?_

* * *

  
  


As the window shattered into a hundred pieces, Sandor closed his eyes and imagined it was one of the sept’s. 

Someday it would be.

A shard of glass cut his hand as he climbed inside, his hot blood dripping onto the wooden boards beneath his feet. He didn’t care. Phoneless, walletless and keyless, there was no other way he was getting inside his house. 

After three grueling hours of vomiting and staggering home in one of the Crownland’s finest storms, Sandor stripped himself of his soaked clothing and rummaged through stacks of unpacked boxes inside his room. It took him five minutes to find the sleek, weightless laptop he had stolen off an elitist snob years ago, and then another five minutes to find the damn cord to charge it with. He hadn’t turned the thing on in months, but his need for it was urgent; with no phone, he needed to improvise.

After plugging it into the outlet beside his bed, Sandor collapsed onto the mattress and sighed.

_Alone at last._

An additional ten minutes was spent searching for the depraved content he desired, scrolling through pages and pages of videos with his bloody left hand while his right firmly held his aching cock. Millions of pornos, yet not one fit the fantasy his mind conjured up after leaving the sept. When his patience ran out, Sandor settled on a lousy five minute video of a pale redhead in a school girl uniform getting blasted from behind. 

This was as close as he would ever get to fucking that sept girl.

Sandor mentally inserted himself and the girl into the scene, bending Sansa over a desk and lifting her plaid skirt just before sliding inside her and watching her little ass bounce each time she threw it back.

The laptop shook on his chest as he jerked himself off to it, his cock hard as steel in his hand and ready to spill a hot load of cum inside that perfect, pretty little bird. He was close, but every time the actress spoke or faced the camera, his fantasy was ruined. 

_Fuck._

In a frenzy, Sandor smacked the laptop off his chest, closed his eyes, and resorted to using his imagination. 

There she was, _Sansa_ , sitting on the Maiden’s altar as naked as her name day inside the dim sept, all the while beckoning him over with one finger. He groaned. As Sandor worked his cock with his hand, he imagined himself tossing her onto the ground and climbing on top of her, her long auburn hair spilling onto the white marble floor beneath them.

While watching her perfectly sized tits rise and fall with her shallow breaths, he would say to her, “You want me to have a better day?” and then gaze into those innocent blue eyes. “ Then let me fuck you bloody.”

Despite the insincerity of the sharp cries leaving the laptop that was now upside down on the floor beside him, he let them serve as Sansa’s and stroked his cock to the erotic fantasy living inside his head.

He had never come so hard in his life. It was deliciously satisfying, yet _disgustingly_ temporary.

The wave of relaxation that normally followed busting a nut never came. As soon as Sandor finished spilling on himself, he was miserable again; it yielded no relief. All jacking off did was worsen his intrusive thoughts about the girl.

‘ _I hope you have a better day.’_

Why did she have to say that? No one had ever said such a thing to him. Why did she have to help him? No one had ever done that either. He felt more hungover from one encounter with a sept girl who might be half his age than he did from the drugs and alcohol the night before.

“Oh, fuck yeah! Cum inside my tight little pussy.”

Sandor swung his legs over the side of the bed and slammed the laptop shut with his foot. He sat up slowly, beginning to feel like he might vomit again, and then wiped both hands on the mattress, his cum and blood staining the sheets. He’d clean that, eventually. 

He leaned down and grabbed a bottle of rum off the floor, cursing when he found that it was empty. 

“Does this look like a better day to you, little bird?” he groaned, as he stood up and stumbled towards the bathroom. “Stupid, chirping, pretty little bird.”

He stood in the shower with his forehead pressed against the wall until the water became ice cold, still thinking of her. He returned to bed afterward, never drying himself off, and let his body and hair soak the stained sheets beneath him. Only then did he find a measure of peace, a dreamless sleep free from the girl’s spell. That is, until a different voice had the audacity to wake him up, the voice belonging to the man who was with him last night.

“Rise and shine, you ugly fucker. You want your shit or not?”

“Seven fuck me,” he groaned, rolling over in bed. When the persistent knocking on the front door wouldn’t stop, he shouted, “Hold the fuck on!”

Sandor opened his eyes. His hangovers lingered - both of them. 

_‘A better day.’_

“Fuck!”

Legs and stomach and head aching, Sandor tumbled out of bed and found a pair of dry boxer shorts lying on the floor. He slid them on while balancing himself on the doorframe, then thundered his way to the front door. After just barely stepping over the glass from the broken window and fumbling around with the locks, Sandor pulled the door open and immediately squinted from the bright light. Somehow the fiercest storm he had seen in years turned into a quaint and sunny afternoon.

Sandor rubbed his eyes and then scowled at the smug drug peddler standing outside his door.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Bronn grinned. “You know you got a broken window over there?”

He squeezed the door handle until his knuckles turned white, preventing himself from choking the smartass. “You dumped me outside the Sept of fucking Baelor last night?”

Bronn gave a wet laugh. “What the fuck are you talking about? After you passed out in the club, I took that blonde with the big ass back to my place. You were right - it _was_ fake.” 

Sandor gritted his teeth. “How in the seven hells did I end up at the sept then?”

“Must have mistaken the dome for a titty and strolled on over there yourself.” Bronn ducked underneath his arm and walked inside, removing the black bag he carried on his back before plopping down on the couch. “Or maybe,” he went on, with mockery in his tone, “maybe you ended up there _for a reason_.”

 _Just like Dondarrion said._ Sandor was even starting to believe it. _But what reason would that be?_ he wondered _. To be tormented by visions of fucking a teenager so I can hate my life even more?_

He shut the door and scoffed. “You fucking asshole. Do you have my shit or not?”

Bronn scratched his stubble. “That depends, you got my money?”

“Somebody jacked my phone and wallet last night...probably you,” he grumbled, slouching against the door. “I’ll pay you back later.”

“If you wanted charity, you should have stayed at the sept.” Bronn pointed towards the bedroom. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Sandor. I know you got a stash in there.”

Sandor frowned. “And how do you know that?” 

His fellow scum of Westeros grinned from ear to ear. “I didn’t, but now I do.”

Cursing with his every step, Sandor plodded towards the closet inside his bedroom and unlocked the safe hidden away inside the wall. Paper and pistols - all a man like him would ever need. Robbing rich men was always easier than working for a living, but Sandor had given up that life after leaving the Westerlands. He had enough money to get by, for now, and bought himself a one bedroom house in a run-down neighborhood outside the capital. Fine by him. Less maintenance, and no one ever came by to bother him, aside from Bronn when it was time to replenish his supply. 

The money in his safe wouldn’t last forever, though. At the rate he was going, blowing it all on drugs and booze and strippers, he’d be broke within the span of a year. Eventually, Sandor would need to do something to earn a living, rob some wealthy bastard again, probably. Or maybe he would be lucky and the money would outlive him.

Living fast, that’s all he knew.

After grabbing a quarter stack of dragons from the safe, Sandor stomped back to the living room and threw the paper in Bronn’s face. 

“Give it here,” he rasped, holding out his hand.

“Now, was that so hard?” Bronn tossed him the bag of herbs with an ugly smirk. “Let’s roll up. I don’t got anywhere to be for the next half hour.”

Sandor plunked down on the other end of the couch, his weight making it groan. “We’ll smoke one of yours. I’m not sharing my shit with you.”

“I see a visit to the sept didn’t make you any more generous.” Bronn unzipped his bag and pulled out a joint wrapped in gold paper. With one lick of the lighter's flame, it came to life. Bronn took the first hit and then passed it over to him, blowing the smoke out through his nose. “Hellfire.”

Sandor nearly dropped the joint in his lap. The word, for whatever reason, made him feel tight in his chest. “What’d you say?”

“That’s the strain - _Hellfire_. Grows over there on Dragonstone. Careful now, it burns like a bitch the first time.”

After taking one long puff, Sandor confirmed, coughing and wincing as he handed it back to Bronn. Lungs blazing, he walked over to the kitchen and drank what had to be a gallon of water from the faucet. He could not remember the last time he had drank water, not unless the few drops from the rain and shower counted. The pain was welcome though, a taste of death, and the more he coughed the less he heard that pretty voice inside his head. 

Once he was finished howling with laughter, Bronn said, “So, did you go to service and say a little prayer this morning while you were at the sept?”

Sandor sat down, clearing his raw throat. “Fuck no, but I was dragged inside while I was passed out. Take a wild guess who I saw.”

Bronn blew out a ring of smoke, a devil’s halo. “Who?”

“Dondarrion. He’s a fucking septon.”

“Dondarrion? _Beric_ Dondarrion? A septon?” Bronn cackled, passing him the joint. “I thought the cocksucker was dead.”

Sandor shrugged. “Said the gods decided to give him a second chance or some shit. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening.”

“A second chance at life and he’s wasting it inside a sept? Dumb fuck.”

Sandor filled his lungs with smoke until they were fit to burst. The Hellfire no longer burned the way it had a moment ago. He was even beginning to like it, and slumped in his seat once he felt that fine, euphoric buzz. As he blew out the smoke between his lips, he found himself staring pensively at the beam of sunlight coming in through the broken window. Dust particles glittered in the light, as coiling streams of smoke exited into the sunny afternoon.

“I also met this girl,” he found himself oversharing. For a fleeting moment, he could see her face in the drifting smoke. “A sept girl.”

“Ah, nothing like a sept girl,” Bronn yawned, as he kicked his feet up on the table. “Proper ladies during the day, and at night they take it right up the ass.”

“Not this one.” Sandor pulled his eyes away from the smoke and passed him the Hellfire. “This one’s the real thing. A good girl.”

“Who likes it up the ass,” Bronn mumbled with the joint between his lips. “Get her number?”

“With what fucking phone? And even if I did have it, I wouldn’t have asked. The girl might be jailbait.”

Bronn’s face twisted with amusement. “That young, huh? Seven hells, for a man who hates the shit, you sure do enjoy playing with fire.”

 _Hellfire_ , Sandor thought, realizing how fitting the name was. _That’s what she is. Beautiful and deadly, here to torment me._

His hands clenched into fists. Not even the herbs could make him forget that pretty, haunting face. “The more I think about her, the more I want to…”

“Fuck her?”

“ _Destroy_ her.”

Bronn hooted. “Fuck, man. What’d she ever do to you?”

 _What no one else has done,_ he refrained from saying out loud. _She helped me. She said my scars were ‘just scars’. She told me that she hopes I have a better day. And it’s been chirping in my mind ever since._ But someone as thick as Bronn wouldn’t be able to understand why that was so vexing. 

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” Sandor mumbled instead, waving a dismissive hand when Bronn tried to pass him the Hellfire. “The chances I see her again are slim to none.”

“Did you at least get her name?”

It sat there on the tip of his tongue, but Sandor hesitated. He glanced over at the window and watched the smoke twirl in the bright white daylight, its performance in slow motion. She reappeared in the hazy lines, sitting on the Maiden’s altar just as he had imagined her earlier, only now her legs were spread open. She slid one small hand between her thighs, with just a trace of a smile on her lips.

Sandor leaned forward in his seat, gaze fixed, jaw slack. “Sansa...”

She slid off the altar, her movements slow and seductive, then turned around and revealed the plumpest little ass he had ever seen. Her long hair brushed her back as she rolled her head from left to right, and then her hips followed, swaying. She was dancing. For him. 

Blood rushed to his cock, until he heard a voice say, “ _Damn._ ” 

As if she heard it too, Sansa peeked over her shoulder, her eyes so sad, and then her dancing silhouette meandered out the window. 

Sandor couldn’t even blink, fearing what he might miss.

_What the fuck did I just smoke?_

He must have sat like that for minutes. When Sandor finally managed to turn his head in Bronn’s direction, he observed the last inch of the joint hanging between his lips, and his bloodshot eyes squinting at his phone. 

Bronn removed the Hellfire from his mouth, then expelled the smoke through his licentious smile. “This her?” he asked, turning the screen around to face him.

Sandor couldn’t feel his face. There she was. A picture of her. Her brilliant smile, her vibrant auburn hair, her bright, innocent eyes that gave his cold, wicked heart a rhythm. He _hated_ her perfection and beauty and grace, and yet… 

“You son of a bitch, that’s her,” he exhaled in disbelief. “How the fuck did you...give me the phone.”

Bronn ignored him and read off the screen. “Sansa Stark, a freshman studying Religious Studies at The Faith of the Seven University of Westeros.” He quickly looked up and smacked his lips. “A college girl — eighteen, at least.” Bronn leered at the screen. “Sings in the sept choir, plays the piano, and is an active member in her community. Impressive. All they need to add is whether the carpet matches the drapes.”

Sandor snatched the phone away and held it in front of his face.

 _Beautiful,_ he thought petulantly. It was the Sept of Baelor’s website, a directory of the faculty and staff. She stood out amongst all the rest. _Sansa Stark._ He could hear the little bird’s chirping as clear as day, studying her pretty mouth. 

‘ _I hope you have a better day.'_

When he saw the picture above hers, a face he wanted to kill instead of fuck, Sandor narrowed his eyes and said, “There’s the ludicrous asshat.”

Bronn coughed up smoke, chuckling. “ _Who_?”

“Just some prick who was with her.” Sandor read the caption underneath the picture. _Harrold Hardyng, student minister, junior at The Faith of the Seven University of Westeros._

“A boyfriend?” Bronn leaned over. “Who, the blonde one? He’s almost as pretty as her.”

Was that her boyfriend? Somehow Sandor never considered that before. From what he could remember, the two did not speak to one another like lovers, not that Sandor would know anything about that in the first place. All he knew was that the more forbidden she was, the more he wanted her. 

Sandor glanced at her once more. 

_Eighteen,_ he thought. _If the gods were merciful, they would have made you younger._

He tossed the phone to Bronn. “Fuck a boyfriend. I’m going to find her.”

“Well, you know where to find her. I say you go back next week.”

Sandor snorted. “What, go to fucking service?”

“If _she’s_ there? You’re goddamn right. I’d sit through Dondarrion’s yabbering once a week if it got me closer to hitting that.” Bronn took one last hit before snuffing out the joint on his knee and flicking it to the ground. “Besides, a sept girl like that could use a little corruption. Better that she learn the world’s shit from someone like you than from someone like Gregor.”

Sandor shot up and kicked the table from out underneath Bronn’s feet. “Don’t say that fucking name around me!” 

There was only one person more infuriating than the little bird, someone far over on the opposite end of the spectrum. Sansa was insufferably good, and Gregor insufferably evil. 

Bronn held up his hands, almost looking fazed. “My bad, my bad. What I meant was, you’d be doing her a favor. Just think of all the fun she’s missing. When we were her age... _shit..._ those were best days of our lives. Go to service, fake a prayer here and there, and get close to her. Hell, one day, she might even get down on her knees for you in the sept.” Bronn waggled his eyebrows up and down. “And I’m not talking about praying.”

_Corruption. I could corrupt her, if she’d let me._

Sandor considered that for a moment. “Dondarrion will know what I’m doing if I go. He saw me looking at her.”

“What’s the ginger fuck gonna do, tell you to leave? Never known a septon to do that.” 

“What septons have you ever known?”

Bronn cackled. “Good point. Tell you what, if you don’t score some pussy anointed by the seven oils within a month, the next zip is on me.” Bronn stood up from the couch and slung the bag over his shoulder. “Hit me up when you get a phone.”

Before he could exit the front door, Sandor said, “Hey, would you say we’re friends?”

His drug dealer since secondary school turned around and shrugged. “Long as you have my money, sure.”

 _One friend,_ thought Sandor, wondering if the little bird might pity him less.

He opened the laptop, typed in her name, and clicked on the sept’s website. 

_Sansa Stark._

A minute later, his cum was dripping down his fingers. Sandor fell asleep that afternoon with her picture on the screen, passing the time until next Sunday.


	4. Purely, Strangely, Fully

**_Sansa_ **

_The thoughts and feelings never went away, no matter how much I prayed._

_That was why I bought the ring._

_It was a symbol of my commitment, a pledge that I would save myself for my husband._

_Never did I think I would need to wear a piece of jewelry to remind myself to remain chaste._

_But then I met you._

_I would sit in class and think about you, about your scars, about your voice, about your eyes most of all._

_I’d feel scared, and then I’d feel sympathetic, and then I’d feel, well, you know._

_That scared me all over again._

_You’re probably laughing out loud as you read this, because you’re awful._

_You are awful, Sandor._

_Purely, strangely, fully awful._

* * *

After a long, fitful night of tossing and turning, Sansa awoke to a dark room and read the clock beside her bed. 

Five in the morning on the dot.

She smiled sleepily and threw off the covers.

_Sunday, at last._

Her alarm was set for six, but Sansa would not wait any longer. All week, she had thought about service and wondered, with impatience, whether the troubled, lonely man named Clegane would return. 

Praying for him was easy, but having faith was harder.

He left so abruptly last Sunday that Sansa did not know if she would ever see him again. He did not want to be there, that was obvious enough. However, having faith meant believing in something even if there was no proof. Sansa had no proof, none at all, that Clegane had been inspired in the least bit. It was difficult for her to tell herself that he would come back, that he would accept the Seven into his life and let her be his friend. 

_Only my friend,_ she thought, staring at the iridescent ring on her right hand as she stood in the shower. It was even prettier when wet, catching the fluorescent light like a prism. A purity ring, as dazzling on her finger as the crystal seven-pointed star hanging inside the sept. Sansa carefully slipped it off her finger and read the four words engraved inside.

_Pure love will wait._

Sansa felt ashamed for buying the ring at first, so burdened by unclean thoughts, but that shame dissipated the instant it touched her finger. It brought her a renewed sense of confidence, quelling the desires of the flesh that haunted her since that one five minute encounter seven days ago. It was not Clegane she mistrusted, but herself. Not only was a man his age, however old he was, unlikely to pursue her in the first place, but his disinterest was more than apparent. The ring was merely a physical reminder of her beliefs, for Sansa refused to gratify her curiosities in any way, shape or form.

She slid the ring back on her finger before stepping out of the shower, repeating those four words.

_Pure love will wait._

As she skipped down the stairs wearing a mauve dress with an airy, knee-length chiffon skirt, Sansa softly hummed the Mother’s hymn. Her father was where she expected him to be: seated on the couch in the living room with the newspaper wide open in his lap, head hanging forward, eyes closed. As he softly snored, Sansa made her way towards him and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Good morning, Daddy.”

He awoke with a start, which made her giggle. “Morning, sweetheart,” he said groggily, squinting at the clock on the wall. “You’re up early. _Early_ early, I should say. Do you need me to drop you off this morning?”

“No, Jeyne's picking me up today,” she replied, as she entered the kitchen. Sansa grabbed the teakettle, turned on the sink faucet, and began filling it with water. “She usually goes to service at the sept on campus, but she finally agreed to come with me to Baelor.”

“Ah, good, good,” her father said, his voice raspy with sleep. “Maybe you can convince your sister to go with you one of these days.”

Sansa gave an exasperated sigh. “Trust me, I’ve tried." She cut off the water and set the teakettle atop the stove. “I think she prefers to worship your gods.”

Father chuckled. “Arya prefers to sit in a godswood instead of a sept. Not once have I heard her worship my gods.”

She turned the knob on the stove to high and watched a halo of bright blue flames lick the bottom of the stainless steel. “We can only pray and have faith,” she repeated Septon Beric’s words, hoping they would prove as true for her little sister as they would for Clegane.

“Pray and have faith,” Father echoed thoughtfully. He set the newspaper down and smiled as much as Eddard Stark’s somber demeanor would allow. “Your mother would be so proud of the woman you’ve become.”

Sansa returned the smile, despite the sting she always felt in her heart when discussing Mother. Six years it had been since her passing, yet the pain never did go away. It would ebb and flow, returning to her every so often. But the pain, as awful as it was, was what drew Sansa closer to her faith. Her mother's death was the catalyst behind her wanting to devote her life to the Seven. Sansa was committed to spending her entire life helping others find their better day. She knew all about dark days, those _terrible_ days, days in which she couldn’t even get out of bed to use the bathroom because of her grief. But grief came in waves, receding to reveal hope. 

_‘Lean not on your own understanding, but trust in the Seven with all your heart.’_

_Chapter five, verse three, Book of the Crone._

There would always be a better day.

Sansa pulled open the blinds and took a moment to savor the warmth of the first brilliant rays of sun before continuing her Sunday morning rituals. She made a cup of tea for herself and her father, then set the cast iron skillet on the stove to prepare breakfast for her family. She made the usual: eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast, sliced strawberries for everyone but Father who said they were too sweet, and poured a glass of orange juice for each of her younger siblings. Arya, Bran, and Rickon were still asleep upstairs (she _did_ start the day an hour earlier than usual), so it was just her and Father that morning at the dining table. He was always a quiet man, but Sansa still cherished the time alone with him. Ordinary moments such as these were the most precious, Sansa knew, and she would not take one for granted.

Shortly after eating, Jeyne texted to let her know that she was parked outside. Sansa gave her father another kiss on the cheek and then grabbed her purse and book of the Seven-Pointed Star before heading out the door.

Sunday, at last, and a lovely one at that. A beautiful day with birds chirping in the trees, lawnmowers sounding in the distance, and a gentle breeze fluttering her hair and skirts. It was a far cry from last Sunday morning, but Sansa hoped one thing might remain the same.

_Clegane._

“I wish you’d start coming to the sept on campus,” Jeyne yawned as soon as Sansa sat in the passenger seat. “Service doesn’t start until nine.”

“The Sept of Baelor is so beautiful, though,” Sansa explained, as she buckled her seat belt. “Not to mention much quieter.”

Jeyne picked up the pale blue thermos sitting in the cup holder and took a long sip; her best friend always was miserable without her caffeine. “It’s quieter because the crowd is older," she said, before putting the car into drive. "You and Harry are the only students I know who still go to Baelor. Seven strike me down for saying this, but Septon Thoros is _way_ more fun than Septon Beric. It’s like a party every Sunday.”

Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. “I don’t go to service to party, I go to worship the Seven.”

“Why not both?” Jeyne suggested with her usual girlish smile. “Maybe next Sunday we can go to service on campus. You know the only reason I’m going to Baelor with you today is to see if your mystery man returns.”

Sansa immediately looked down at her ring. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“If you didn’t want to tell me, you shouldn't have bought _that_ ,” said Jeyne, gesturing towards her hand. “Gosh, I’ve never seen you so…”

“Don’t you dare say-”

“Smitten!” Jeyne exclaimed, giggling as she turned the corner onto Visenya Street.

“Oh my gosh!" Sansa all but groaned. "Do you realize you find a way to use that word _every single day_?”

Jeyne gave a half shrug. “It’s my favorite word.”

Sansa looked out the passenger window and spied the sept's gold dome glittering in the near distance. Not only was it a mistake to tell Jeyne what happened last Sunday, but it was a mistake to leave out the most noteworthy details when she did. Sansa never mentioned that Clegane was clearly drunk the night before, nor did she mention the scars on his face. And his age, whatever it was, she left that out too. Truthfully, Sansa only told her that there was a man sleeping outside the sept who clearly had a rough night and needed help. Even though it was not a lie, Sansa felt guilty about holding back the details all the same. 

But it was for the best. Jeyne, as sweet as she was, was not the most open-minded person. When she had promptly asked her whether the man was handsome or not (because of course she would ask that at once), Sansa blurted out, “Yes,” before adding, “but not in a traditional way.” That excited her friend, who, despite her faith, had become boy crazy ever since moving out of her parents' house. Jeyne never wanted to go to service at the Sept of Baelor with the Crownlands’ "older" crowd, but she was all for making the trip if it meant she could potentially meet the man who inspired her to buy a purity ring. 

If Clegane _did_ come, which Sansa dearly hoped that he would, she wouldn't be surprised if Jeyne ran right out of the sept; helping reform a "troubled, troubled" man would be not appeal to her friend. No matter what Jeyne thought of him, it would not make any difference to Sansa. By the grace of the Seven, she was going to help him if he returned. She was going to be his friend.

Sansa looked at her ring. 

_Only his friend._

It was only five past seven when they parked outside the sept. While Jeyne sat in the car another moment to put her dark brown hair into a braid, Sansa anxiously stepped out and clutched the Seven-Pointed Star to her chest.

 _Please come,_ she thought, as she stared at the massive holy temple in front of her. _I can help you._

Minutes later, she and Jeyne were walking up the white marble steps. Once they reached the top, Sansa looked down at the empty spot where Clegane had been lying unconscious a week ago. Just because he wasn't _there_ didn't mean he would never come. 

Sighing, yet continuing to have faith, Sansa entered the sept.

Aside from an elderly couple sitting on a bench beside the Mother's transept, no one was there. 

Jeyne nudged her with her elbow. “I told you... _old_ people.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Harry,” Sansa whispered, as they walked down the main aisle, their heels clicking against the immaculate floor.

“Hey, don’t say that. Harry may be smart, and undeniably gorgeous, but he is especially arrogant. I still can’t believe he tried to kiss you without your consent.” Jeyne’s face screwed up with disgust. “That _pig_.”

Once they arrived at the front pew, Sansa set her things down and said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab my sheet music from the practice room.”

Jeyne sat down, yawning some more. “Are you singing today, too?”

“No, the youth choir will be singing today, but I’m playing the closing hymn.”

“You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you pray, you sing, you play the piano...” Jeyne gave a small sigh, then smiled. “Your mystery man would be crazy not to come back.”

 _If he does come back, it won’t be because of me,_ she thought, wondering if he would even want to be friends with her in the first place. Instead of saying that, Sansa thanked her friend for the compliment and made her way towards the music hall. After picking up her sheet music, Sansa spoke with Septa Mordane and listened to the youth choir rehearse. The small, angelic voices never failed to give her goosebumps, singing about the Seven's love and mercy. When Sansa thought she might cry, she excused herself and returned to the nave.

The sept came to life with voices big and small, footsteps heavy and light, laughter boisterous and soft. Sunday sounds, good sounds, scattering up into the dome. Her eyes quickly scanned the pews, but none of those talking or walking or sitting or laughing were him. Feeling faintly dejected, Sansa checked her watch: twenty-three minutes till eight. _There's still time,_ she thought, having faith. Most people did not come until ten minutes or so before service anyway.

Once Sansa returned to her seat, she observed Jeyne staring blankly ahead at the lectern, her face three shades too pale.

“Hey, do you feel alright?” she asked, placing a hand on her forehead to check her temperature. “You don’t feel warm.”

Jeyne startled, then looked at her with brown eyes wide with incredulity. “I-I think I saw a devil."

Sansa would have laughed had her expression not been so unsettling. “What are you talking about?”

“Over there," Jeyne whispered, pointing over her shoulder.

Sansa's eyes followed, squinting in the direction of the Stranger’s transept. As soon as she spied the figure standing beside the dim altar, the sheet music fell from her hands.

Heart dropping, Sansa quietly said, “Oh my gosh, he came back. He really came back.”

“ _That's_ your mystery man?" Jeyne gasped loudly enough to turn heads in their direction. "Seven heavens, Sansa! I thought you said he was handsome.”

Sansa shushed her loud friend. “I said he was not _traditionally_ handsome.”

Jeyne grimaced. “Traditional, not traditional, he’s not handsome either way. And he's wearing _black_.”

“We are all made in Their image," Sansa told her, with a disapproving frown. "Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Before she could take a step in his direction, Jeyne grabbed her hand. “Are you insane? He’s _old_.”

“You say that about anyone over the age of thirty.” Sansa pulled her hand away. “And you're making this out to be something it's not. I’m just going to go over there and welcome him to the sept, just like I welcome everyone who is new.”

Jeyne inhaled a sharp breath. “Take some holy water with you, I mean it.”

Ignoring her friend’s silly remarks, Sansa made her way towards the transept furthest from the chancel. It felt strange walking towards the altar, like writing with the opposite hand. It took concentration, a commitment even, to approach the gilded statue of the cowled deity. And yet, at the same time, there was some force pulling her closer to the man who stood there with his back facing the pews.

Jeyne was wrong. As scarred and darkly dressed as he was, Clegane was handsome. 

_‘Lust is a sin.’_

Sansa looked down at her ring, watching it glimmer with her every step. 

_Calling a man handsome is not lust,_ Sansa reasoned. _One is allowed to admire someone beautiful. All of the Seven’s creations are beautiful._

Sansa had never seen a suit tailored to fit a man as large as him, but the fit could not have been any better. Black was certainly not a common color to wear to service, but it was classy, she thought, and matched the dark, straight hair that fell to his shoulders. 

_A troubled, troubled man,_ she remembered the septon telling her. _But the gods heard my prayers_. _They want me to help him. They want me to be his friend._

Her nude, low heels hit the marble loudly enough to be heard over the growing chatter inside the sept, yet Clegane never did turn around, not even when she stopped just a few feet behind him. When he did not look to be in prayer, Sansa inhaled through her nose and said, with graceful simplicity, “Good morning, sir.”

Slowly, he looked away from the altar, his expression inscrutable. “Morning.”

The lack of enthusiasm in that deep, raspy voice left her speechless. Most people, be they man, woman, young, or old, greeted her with warm smiles. But not him. Clegane even looked a bit angry.

 _A troubled, troubled man,_ she thought, eyeing his scars. _But I can help you._

“You came back,” Sansa observed after a lingering silence.

His eyes narrowed into slits. “Do I know you?”

A wave of dizziness washed over her. _All week I've been thinking about him, praying for him, and he doesn't even remember me._ Sansa had never wanted to disappear into thin air more than she did at that moment.

“Oh, I was there last Sunday,” she stammered, nervously playing with her necklace. “You know, when you were brought inside the sept. We talked over there in the pews...your shirt was wet.” Sansa winced, her mouth moving faster than her brain. “I mean _you_ were wet...from the storm…”

Just when she thought it would be less mortifying for her to turn around and run away, his frown melted into a subtle smile. His smile was not traditionally handsome either, yet those shameful feelings returned stronger than before.

“I’m just giving you a hard time, girl,” Clegane laughed coarsely. “I remember you. I’d have to be blinder than your one-eyed septon not to.”

Sansa was not quite sure what he meant by that, but it almost sounded like a compliment. She smiled and gave a shy laugh, not knowing what to say in response. 

Doubtlessly aware of her demure demeanor, he held out his right hand and said, “Sandor.”

She looked into his eyes, a darker grey than her father’s, and repeated the name in her head.

_Sandor._

She had never heard the name before, yet somehow it fit perfectly, just like his crisp black suit.

Her hands were sweaty and cold, but it would be rude to deny his friendly gesture. She held out her right hand and smiled.

“Sansa,” she said in return.

The sight and sensation of her hand being engulfed by one three times larger made her lips part. Sandor Clegane's handshake was firm, and his coarse skin warmer than summer, a stark contrast to her own. If he noticed the clamminess of her skin, his face did not betray a thing. “Sansa,” he repeated fluently, as if his tongue had articulated the name a thousand times before. Quite abruptly, he looked down and peered at her hand. “Were you wearing this last Sunday?”

Sansa looked at the iridescent halo on her finger and blushed. “Oh, no. It’s new.”

He was silent for a brief moment, then said, “Your man has good taste, I see.”

That was more than bemusing. “A... _man_? I don’t have a man, _”_ Sansa responded with conviction.

He lifted his eyes. They were gleaming. “No? That blonde you were with wasn’t your boyfriend?”

The assumption unsettled her stomach. “Harry? No, no, he’s just a friend of mine.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Sandor Clegane said, with a shadow of a smile.

Another silence was born. Only then did Sansa realize their hands were still touching. Delicately, she pulled hers away. 

Sandor turned back to the fearsome statue. “'Beloved in the sight of the Stranger is the death of his children'.”

_Chapter one, verse one, Book of the Stranger._

Sansa almost fell over. “You know the Seven-Pointed Star?”

“One or two verses," he murmured. "Some stick with you.”

She remembered then. “Oh that’s right, you said you went to service when you were younger.”

Sandor regarded her, looking amused. “You remember that?”

As her thoughts became more and more improper, Sansa lowered her gaze to the purity ring. It hardly shined at all underneath the shadow of the Stranger. “I remember you mentioning something about going to service before," she said softly. 

There was another silence, deeper, chasmic. It was only when she lifted her eyes to the grey ones staring down at her that he finally spoke. “My foster father made me go when I was boy.”

“Oh,” said Sansa, feeling all the more sympathetic towards him.

She remembered what Septon Beric had said about him having experienced a great deal of evil in the world. Why had Sandor been fostered? Did he lose his parents? Did they not want him? Could it have been abuse, and not a terrible accident like she assumed, that scarred his face? Perhaps if they became friends one day, she could ask. 

Sansa tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “So, you didn’t _want_ to go?”

Sandor snorted a laugh. “Not once.”

Although his bluntness left her momentarily stunned, she supposed it was better than him lying. Sansa even admired it.

“What made you come today, then?” she asked with genuine curiosity. 

He looked at the Stranger and then back at her. Sansa could have sworn his eyes were darker than they had been a moment ago. “Guess I came here looking for that better day."

“You’ll find it here.” Her response was innocent, yet something about the manner in which she said it made her feel sinful. “I mean, I can help you find it.” That didn’t sound or feel any better. As soon as the strange words were said, Clegane's lips set in a grim line, as if it made him angry. Even his jaw tensed. Eager to change the subject, Sansa asked, “So, why did you come to this transept?”

His mouth was still hard when he shrugged. “Unpopular, unloved, unapproachable. He’s just like me,” Sandor declared with nonchalance. 

Sansa’s sympathy deepened. “That's not true. There are people who pray to the Stranger,” she informed him, pointing to the few lone unlit candles on the altar. “Septons Beric and Meribald will light one before service, and the third is there for...whoever else.”

“Say less, girl.” Clegane reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. A _lighter_. Sansa was so dumbstruck that she _did_ lose her balance that time. With reflexes quicker than she could believe, his hand shot out and closed around her arm before she could fall. When he released her, he held up the lighter, grinning strangely. “Do these frighten you so much?”

 _Don't they frighten **you**? _she wondered but dared not ask. “No, I just don't know anybody who carries one." 

"Never know when you might need it," he said casually, before flicking the metal wheel with his thumb. Sandor ran the small orange flame over the wick of the tallest candle. It lit up at once, casting a warm glow at the Stranger's feet. With the strangest finesse, he slipped the lighter back into his pocket. "There you go."

Sansa gave him a wary look. "I'm not praying to him," she blurted, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights.

He threw his head back and laughed. A choir of whispers came from the pews behind her, but Sansa could not find it within her to look away from the man in front of her.

“Why not?” Clegane asked her.

Was he the first person to ever ask her that? He must have been, for Sansa did not have an answer. She used to think it was because of her mother's premature death, but Sansa's reluctance to pray to the Stranger started long before that.

Sansa dropped her gaze, fiddling with her necklace. “I don't know..."

“I do," he declared confidently. "You fear death, don't you?"

This man knew nothing about her aside from her name, yet he knew her better than herself.

She lifted her eyes. “Yes," she admitted. "As beautiful as the seven heavens are said to be, the thought of dying does scare me.”

“We’re all going to die, girl," said Sandor, his expression suddenly solemn. "That’s why you need to live every day like it's your last. Live fully.”

Sansa considered that for a moment. _Live fully._ Two words. So simple, yet somehow so profound. 

“I do live fully,” she told him. When he narrowed his eyes at her, Sansa blushed. “What?”

His mouth twitched. “What do you do to live fully?"

“Well...I spend a lot of time with my family and friends, I volunteer a lot, I help others..."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead wearily, as if listening to her speak was physically painful. Then he laughed at her. Again. “That’s not how you do it, girl.”

Sansa almost pouted. _Slow to anger,_ she reminded herself. “Then how do you do it?”

“Let’s see…” He leaned to the side with one hand on the Stranger’s gilded robes.

Sansa gasped softly. The statues of the Seven were to never be touched by anyone aside from the septas and septons. Yet Sansa could not find the words or the courage to tell this man otherwise. 

After a short, thoughtful silence, he said, “You can go somewhere you’ve never gone before, do something you’ve never done.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Maybe meet someone new.”

Sansa mindlessly tugged on her necklace, finding it hard to breathe. “Well, I’ve met you,” she said, gentler than a breath.

The unscathed corner of his mouth turned up. “And I’ve met you.” Sandor dropped his hand from the statue and took a step closer, and then another. She needed to tilt her head back to follow his eyes. After the third step, he was towering over her. “Maybe when we're done here, you and I can-” He paused and looked up abruptly, then took a step back. “It’s a cold day in the seven hells when I show up for service before you, isn’t it, Dondarrion?”

Sansa let out a shaky breath, wondering how long she had been holding it in. 

Septon Beric approached with his usual unearthly poise, yet his face carried an expression she had never seen before. “There are no cold days in the seven hells, Clegane, only a timeless eternity in a bottomless sea of unquenchable fire.” 

The words sent a chill down her spine, but they only made Sandor Clegane laugh. 

The septon turned to her and offered her a smile. “Good morning, Sansa.”

“Good morning, Septon,” Sansa greeted him in return, short of breath. 

“I’m afraid Marillion has fallen ill and will not be able to attend service this morning. Would you like to play the opening hymn?”

Sansa could have jumped for joy. The opening hymn had been a dream of hers to play ever since her first piano lesson as a child, but Marillion, quite selfishly, would never take turns. He loved to play when the sept was full, when the greatest number of eyes and ears could see and hear him play. Sansa was always left playing the closing hymn when the sept would be clearing out. 

“Yes, I’d love to,” she responded, unable to contain her excitement. Dropping her hand from her necklace, Sansa turned to the large man standing beside the Stranger and said, “It was very nice meeting you, formally. I hope you enjoy service today.”

Sandor's mouth twitched again. "I think I just might."

With that, Sansa turned away from the dim, foreign transept and smiled to herself as she made her way over to the piano to play the opening hymn. 

_That's not why you're smiling,_ an intuitive inner voice told her. _You're smiling because of him._

She wondered what Sandor was going to say to her before Septon Beric arrived. He wasn't going to ask her out, was he? No, of course not. Sansa didn't even get to ask him how old he was. Then again, did that really matter? Based on what she saw, Sandor didn't seem like a troubled man. Well, he _was_ hungover last Sunday and cursed in the sept, he also carried a lighter with him which was worrisome, but that was alright. He could be forgiven for all of those things now that he was ready to let the Seven into his life. Sandor Clegane didn't need to be perfect to be her friend. And no matter what it took, Sansa would help him find that better day.

Her lingering smile fell when she observed Harry standing beside Jeyne with his arms crossed, overtly displeased.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…” he scolded, as she picked up her sheet music from where Jeyne had organized them on the bench. Harry ran his fingers through his hair, blonde strands shining like gold in the sunlight coming in through the windows. “What were you doing in the Stranger's transept with _him_?”

“I was introducing myself,” she explained, almost haughtily. “He’s joining our congregation.”

Harry’s face blanched. “Joining our...he can’t do that. I mean, just look at him! He’s wearing black!”

“That’s what I said,” Jeyne murmured beside her, as she perused through the holy text.

Sansa clapped her hands on her hips, much like her mother used to do when Arya would be acting up. “There is nothing in the Seven-Pointed Star that says you can’t wear black in the sept. Ms. Olenna wears a bright green blouse and skirt each Sunday and I find that far more distracting.”

Harry’s mouth quirked up. “The issue is not that I find it distracting, even though it is. The issue is that black is only worn inside the sept when you’re giving a eulogy or holding vigil, not when you worship the gods.” He glared with unforgiving judgment in the direction of the Stranger’s altar. “He mocks us all.”

Sansa regarded her so-called friend critically. “At least he’s trying.”

“‘To mock the gods is to plant a terrible seed. And whatever one sows, he must also reap’,” Harry put in. “Chapter three, verses nine and ten, Book of the Crone.”

“‘Judge not by appearance, but by character’,” Sansa challenged him. “Chapter-”

“Believe me, Sans," Harrold Hardyng interrupted, unsmiling. "I’ll do that, too.”

Jeyne blew out her cheeks and shifted in her seat, visibly uncomfortable. It was not right to argue inside the sept; Sansa must not let her frustration get the better of her. Without another word, she took the music with her to the far corner of the chancel.

She sat on the polished wooden bench behind the piano, placed the sheet music in front of her, and brushed the keys lightly with her fingertips. She was nervous, more so than usual. Not only because she would be playing to her largest audience yet, but because of one person in particular. Sansa lifted her eyes from the white ivory and looked towards the transept of the Stranger. 

No one was there, only one cowled statue and two lit candles.

Panicking, Sansa scanned the busy sept. _He left again,_ she thought, until she saw him sitting in the same spot where they had spoken to one another last Sunday. Long arms stretched out on the back of the pew and feet propped up on the bench in front of him, Sandor Clegane sat inside the Sept of Baelor like someone watching television on the couch.

Her mouth fell open.

 _He is awful,_ Sansa thought, quickly looking away. Just when the sept was quieting down, a giggle escaped from her lips. Two of them. Sansa had to think of something sad to stop herself from erupting into a fit of laughter, so she thought about her mother.

She sighed, melancholic at once.

Upon Septon Beric lighting the final candle on the Father's altar, Sansa checked her watch.

Eight in the morning on the dot.

Sansa took a deep breath and placed her fingers on the keys, letting the music soar.


	5. Mirages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to prettybadmagic for giving me a spicy idea for this chapter (you'll know what it is when you read it 😉)
> 
> Also, please know that Sandor has a filthy mind. The tags will reflect the "real" events going on and not Sandor's fantasies (e.g. if he thinks about tossing Sansa's salad, I'm not going to add that to the tags unless it really happens in the story lol)
> 
> Sorry for the wait. I can't write. 
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

**_Sandor_ **

_She was a mirage, I was certain,_ _f_ _alser_ _than the visions I had from the Hellfire._

_Shaking her hand was not a gesture of kindness, but a way to convince myself that she was real._

_Standing in front of me, smiling, cheeks rosier than her lips,_

_she was innocence made manifest._

_Corrupting her would be a pleasure, I thought._

_It would be my legacy._

_By now, you may be wondering if I did._

_The short answer is yes,_ _I corrupted her._

_I plucked the prettiest flower I could find and dangled it over a flame._

_I watched it wither in the heat, a slow and gentle destruction, and listened to it whisper its affections for me all the while._

_It wasn't until I pulled it away did I realize the damage I had done._

_Petals once pure, blackened._

_I burned something beautiful._

* * *

“You may begin whenever you’re ready.”

Stretching out his legs as far as he could inside the dim confessional booth, Sandor pressed his feet against the gilded door until the wood creaked. _A lot of gold for a place that renounces vanity_ , he thought with disdain. Separating him from the undead septon was a wooden panel with a perforated metal screen. Soft white light bled through the small holes, decorating the unburnt side of Sandor's face with a hundred seven-pointed stars.

Stars and scars. Heaven and hell. Penitent and sinner. 

He shouldn’t have agreed to this, but there was no other way to convince Dondarrion that he came to Baelor to redeem himself and not bludgeon the sept girl with his cock. Only the latter was the truth, and more so now than ever after the conversation they had inside the Stranger's transept.

"The ring on her finger," Dondarrion had murmured to him the moment she left. "Did you see it?"

Refraining from watching her saunter down the aisle, Sandor looked at him and said, "Yeah, I saw it. Some ring. What about it?"

"It is not only a ring, but a promise to the Seven. It is a commitment to remain pure."

He had already assumed the girl was more chaste than Maiden herself, but the confirmation set his loins on fire. Dondarrion was a fool to let him know.

"Good for her," Sandor said, feigning disinterest.

Beric's one eye studied him dubiously. "It means she's saving herself, Clegane."

_Saving herself for me._

"Spare me, I didn't come here for the girl," he lied, then pointed to the Stranger. "I came here before _he_ comes for _me_. What you said resonated with me, Dondarrion. I really thought I died last weekend." Sandor expelled a heavy sigh, though he would have sooner laughed. "Maybe there's still time to save my soul."

To his surprise, the septon nodded. "There is still time," Beric granted, as hopelessly naive as the chirping little bird, "and healing the soul begins with confession. 'He who conceals his wrongdoings will not be given the Seven's mercy, but he who confesses will be given eternal life'. Chapter two, verse eleven, Book of the Father. If you mean to seek forgiveness, that is where we will start."

" _We_?" Sandor looked over at the little bird and observed her speaking with the ludicrous asshat with her hands on her hips. The sight was enraging. 

"We," said Beric. "You, me, and the Seven." He picked up an unlit candle and ran the wick over the only one that held a flame. The Stranger's altar grew brighter. Before bowing his head in silent prayer, the septon had said, "When service is over, you will repent. And then, in due course, you, too, will be redeemed."

There was no redeeming himself, not in a hundred years, not in a thousand, not even if he could start his miserable life all over again. But Sandor could fake it for a time. He could fake it until he corrupted her. _My legacy._ Once she saw the world for what it was, a steaming pile of shit, so long Baelor, so long Dondarrion, and so long Sansa Stark.

Gods, the things he was willing to do to show her what it means to live fully. He had been so close, a second away from asking... 

"Maybe when we’re done here, you and I can go somewhere you’ve never gone and do something new."

It would have been downright blunt, he knew that, but Sandor never did learn how to pick up a woman with words. That was what his money was for. Besides, he could not help himself from cutting to the chase. The girl looked _starved_ for a good time. Friends, family, _volunteering_? That was her definition of living fully? Sandor did not know if he pitied her or envied her.

_How does someone stay innocent for so long in a world like this? How?_

Had Dondarrion not come by and blocked his shot, Sansa might have said yes. The girl was shy, nervous, and far too courteous to say no. And naive, _gods_ , was she naive. It was only a matter of time before the real world ate her alive. But that's what he was there for. Sandor would corrupt her, gently, for her own good. He would teach her the truth, he would have fun doing it, but he wouldn't kill the girl in the process. He wouldn't be like Gregor. A girl like her would never survive someone like Gregor.

No, Sandor was going to destroy the little bird gently.

Gently, like how her hand shook his own. That single touch had given him so many vile thoughts. A hand so soft, so delicate, inspiring him to think about rearranging her guts. He'd kill Dondarrion right now inside the confessional if it meant he could be touched by those hands elsewhere. _Fuck._ The thought was enough to get his blood rushing south. Sansa Stark's hands, small, fragile things, whispering as they moved left and right over the piano's keys. Had he not touched her, he would not have believed her to be real. How in the seven hells was she real? 

"Clegane?"

Sandor momentarily forgot where he was, too preoccupied with wondering how those tiny, whispering little hands would feel fondling his balls. He shifted in his seat and peered through the screen. All he could see through the small perforations was the septon's irksome profile as he looked ahead at the door.

Sandor sat back and cleared his throat. “Don’t know how to start.”

“Begin by making the sign of the seven-pointed star," said Dondarrion. "Do you remember how?”

He did remember how, but he wasn’t going to do it. Instead, Sandor waved his hand in front of his face and said, “Done.”

"Now you will say, 'Seven, I have come to confess that I have sinned and ask for your blessings'."

Begrudgingly, he repeated the words. “Seven, I have come to confess…” _that I’m going to fuck that girl’s brains out right in front of you,_ “that I have sinned and ask for your blessings."

"Now state how long it has been since your last confession."

Sandor gave a mirthless laugh. "You know the answer to that."

Without so much as a sigh, the septon proceeded. “You will now confess your sins, as much as you can remember. I stand here in place of the Seven and the sept. You-”

“Standing? I thought you were sitting.”

“You may begin with the mortal sins," Dondarrion went on, "those which you have committed willingly and knowingly."

That was like asking Sandor to recount every single day of his life. _Impossible_. “How many hours you got?”

“As many as you need. Septon Meribald will be leading the ten o’clock service."

_Seven fuck me._

It needed to be done. Sandor could not avoid revisiting the past any longer. _The things I am willing to suffer just so I can thrash this girl_. But it would be worth it, he knew. A girl like _that_...he'd never have this opportunity again. Not to mention she would haunt him for the rest of his days until he had her, just like she had all week. Sandor could play this game longer than a month, if needed. He could play it for a year, as long as he remembered when to quit.

“Mortal sins," he started out with a lengthy exhale. "Well, I wasn’t a bad kid. Didn’t get into the bad shit till af-”

“Cursing is not permitted, Clegane.”

Sandor sneered at the screen. _You fucking goddamn motherfucking piece of shit._ “I didn’t get into the bad _stuff_ till after I was put into the system. Got into a lot of fights, broke a lot of bones. Then I was fostered with…” He trailed off. It wasn't that he didn't remember, he just didn't want to. Even remembering those first cruel years of his life was enough to turn his stomach inside out. “You know this already.”

“Confess your mortal sins," said Beric, his silhouette motionless on the other side of the screen.

The stars bleeding onto his face burned, but there was nowhere else to go. The sooner he continued, the sooner he would be done, and the sooner he could birdwatch outside the sept.

“Tywin was a tough foster parent," Sandor pressed on, "but I respected him. He made it known from day one that he didn’t take me in for any other reason than he owed it to my family. Jaime and I...we were trouble. Started out stealing video games and Playboys, shooting pellet guns at windows and cars. You know, bad stuff, but nothing extreme. Things got worse once we moved to the Crownlands. Met Bronn and started smoking weed when I was twelve. Haven't gone a week without it since. Watched a lot of porn in those years. Haven't gone a week without it either." Sandor paused, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. Had it always been so goddamn hot? "Seventeen was the year I got into the heavier drugs, coke, xans, fentanyl...nothing you’re a stranger to."

Unprovoked, the septon said, "Continue."

Sandor would laughed were he not suddenly feeling so ill. “Started going to strip clubs the day I turned eighteen. Found out some of the girls would do more than just strip if you paid them a little extra, so that's what I did. I can't tell you how many women or how many times...half the time I was cross faded and didn't even know what I was doing till after the fact. It got to a point where I didn't even use a condom. I just didn't care anymore. Then there's liquor, the _hard_ liquor. I've blacked out more times than I can count. When I moved back to the Westerlands, I met Euron and we..." Sandor could have cut out his tongue. He wiped more sweat from his brow. What the fuck was he doing saying all of this, sharing _this_ much?

"Continue, Clegane."

He turned a cold eye on the screen. "You're not a snitch, are you, Dondarrion?"

"Whatever you say in confession cannot and will not be repeated, not even to the High Septon."

Was that true or was this fancy booth bugged? _Fuck it,_ he thought. _Too late to turn back now._ "You know what it was. We robbed and we were good at it. Now, I never stole from anyone who couldn't afford it, only men who had too much. Even broke into Lannister's house when he went on his honeymoon with that giant-sized wife of his. Never got caught. Not once. Never even had to kill a man, though I was close. A part of me even wanted to..." He wiped his hands down his face, nauseous. "Uh... _fuck_...moved back here to the Crownlands and, well, same old song. Drinking, smoking, fighting, paying women for their bodies. Those are my mortal sins."

“And the Seven will forgive you for those sins," Beric assured him, "as well as the others, which you will now confess.”

That caught him off guard. "Confess _? More?_ I thought I was done."

“There are mortal sins, acts which destroy your relationship with the Seven, and then there are venial sins, acts which weaken it.”

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t speak septon, Dondarrion."

“Venial sins are lesser sins, such as thoughts that cannot be controlled.”

Sandor knew exactly where this was going. _You clever fuck. You want to hear me confess about the girl._ Maybe his initial thoughts about her were uncontrolled, but he _very_ willingly thought about fucking her on the marble floors. Mortal or venial, he wasn't going to confess to either.

“What sorts of thoughts?” he asked, after a passing silence. 

“Impure thoughts, Clegane."

_Like seeing the little bird flash me her pussy on the maiden’s altar? Those sorts of thoughts?_

Sandor straightened his spine. His suit stuck to his skin, sweating like a dog. "Since when did _thinking_ become a sin?"

“Any act not done in the service of the gods is a sin," Dondarrion explained plainly, "including thoughts."

“Does that mean shitting is a sin?”

“Clegane.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever shitted for the gods.”

At last, Sandor earned a weary sigh from the septon. “You have nothing else you wish to confess? No carnal thoughts that cannot be subdued?”

Thinking of how pretty Sansa would look bent over the pew with his cock buried in her ass, he said, “Aside from strippers, no."

“No one else?”

“Not that I can remember.”

A brief silence passed between them, giving Sandor time to close his eyes and play out the fantasy in his head.

Auburn hair spilling down her back, pale hips swaying, Sansa said, "I can help you find your better day."

He came up behind her, bent her over the altar, and cupped her pussy with his hand. "Fuck a better day," he growled. "I'm going to fuck you into an awful one. I'm going to make you hate me."

"Ruin me, Sandor," she begged him, saintly pussy dripping in his hand. "I want you to-"

“Your penance," Beric interrupted, causing his fantasy to drift away like Hellfire's smoke. "The graveyard is located just south of the sept. Many of those who attend the Sept of Baelor are buried there. The sexton informed me the other day that he could use a helping hand.”

"Help how? By digging _graves_?" Sandor scoffed. "I thought I came here to confess, not interview for a job."

“An hour a day, every day. That will be your penance.”

Sandor had half a mind to drive his fist through the screen. Instead, he took a deep breath and reminded himself to play the part of the penitent. It would be worth it. She would be worth it. This was only temporary.

“An hour a day, every day," Sandor echoed. "Until when?”

“You’ll know when," Dondarrion said with finality. Off in distance, the choir began to sing. Sandor wondered what the little bird sounded like when she sang. He'd find out. He'd make her sing. For him. "Now, Clegane, pick up the Seven-Pointed Star and let us pray."

_Fuck._

They went back and forth, reading the false words one line at a time. _Who wrote this shit?_ he wondered. Sandor eventually zoned out, not digesting a single word. All he could think of was how easily Sansa could straddle him inside the confessional booth with her little hands clasped behind his neck. Once the prayer of contrition was said, Dondarrion preached some more, absolved him, and told him that he was free to go, at last. 

Except there was no going anywhere, not with his cock stiff and straining against the zipper of his pants. When he saw Dondarrion move for the first time in however long it had been since they entered, Sandor asked, "Mind if I sit in here awhile longer? Got a lot on my mind."

"By all means," said Beric, fatally naive, "take your time. And Clegane, well done."

The instant the septon stepped out of the booth, Sandor pressed his feet against the door to keep it from opening and pulled out his cock. _You want to see a mortal sin? I'll show you a mortal sin._ Willingly and knowingly, he stroked himself to the thought of her, picking up just where his fantasy left off. Sandor knew the girl's pussy would choke his shit, tight pink flesh stretching open for the very first time. _Fuck_. He allowed a soft grunt to pass, sweating almost profusely now, but clenched his jaw to keep from cursing aloud. 

"I want you to ruin me," he imagined Sansa moaning, as he took her from behind and slipped his thumb in her ass. " _Destroy me_ , Sandor."

He covered the head of his cock with his left hand, preventing his cum from shooting out onto his dark suit. At the height of his release, Sandor pictured himself blowing his load inside her and listening to her cry out, "No! Don't come in me! _Please_!"

And just like that, cock growing soft and hand full of cum, the pleasure was gone, and he was left wanting her all the more.

Sandor opened up the Seven-Pointed Star and wiped his hand clean on the thin paper. When he heard a page rip, he looked down and read the first line where his cum now glistened in the light coming through the screen.

_Lust is a sin._

It was too perfect. Sandor threw his head back and laughed.

"I'm the sin here," he whispered to the first verse of the second chapter of the Maiden's book. "But I'll be sure to remind your girl that lust is a sin while she's gagging on my cock."

He dropped the book to the floor, then stomped on it with one foot. Afterward, Sandor zipped up his pants and took out the steel flask he had hidden away inside his suit jacket. Black rum from the North, a real Sunday treat. A single shot would fuck up most men, and there were two and a half inside his flask. After sitting through service and going to confession, he deserved a taste - just one. He opened the flask and took a sip, a bitter kiss on his tongue, and then he took another, then Sandor eventually said fuck it and chugged until it was bone dry. It would be awhile before the second service was over, he thought. He'd be good by the time he could run into the little bird again.

He sat there for a moment, white seven-pointed stars boring through his sweaty face, then slowly dozed off to the distant sound of a septon preaching.

Some time later, there was a knock.

"Hello?" an angel said in his dreamless, drunken slumber. "Are you in there?"

_Sansa._

As he was jolted awake, he accidentally kicked the door with both feet. When he heard the little bird gasp, Sandor was one breath away from pulling her inside the confessional with him.

He tucked the flask inside his jacket and combed his hair with his fingers, but there was nothing he could do about the booth suddenly moving in circles, hundreds of seven-pointed stars spinning round and round.

Sandor was drunk, tipsy at best, and stumbled as soon as he rose to his feet. _What the fuck was I thinking?_ He pulled open the door, unnaturally slow, and found the blue-eyed sept girl waiting for him to corrupt her on the other side.

“Hi," the little bird chirped, clutching her holy book of lies to her tits. "You're still here.”

 _And you're still perfect, aren't you?_ he thought scornfully. _Since we're stating the fucking obvious._

"I fell asleep," Sandor admitted, only because he hoped it would excuse his drunken behavior.

Her eyes lit up when she smiled, not knowing he fucked and drank himself into a stupor because of her.

_Stupid little bird._

“That's alright" said Sansa. "You're not the first."

Before he would laugh in her face, he looked around the fancy vaulted marble gilded space and said, “Where's that friend of yours who stared at me like I was the Stranger?"

Sansa's smile faltered. “Oh, her name's Jeyne. I'm sorry she...that was very rude of her, she just...doesn't usually come here..." The little bird looked down at her feet, so visibly nervous. The sight made his spent cock twitch. "She left after eight o’clock service."

 _Beautiful,_ Sandor thought, as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the confessional booth. _Mo_ _re time alone with you._

"And the one who's not your boyfriend?" he asked, gritting his teeth. "Henry?"

Sansa looked up at him, giggling. " _Harry_. He's in a meeting with the septons."

He could hardly believe his luck. _A_ _perfect opportunity_. With service over and the asshat busy with Dondarrion, no one could stop him from asking the girl if she wanted to go somewhere and do something new. But now, emboldened by the rum, Sandor decided he would reel her in a different way. He _could_ corner her until she said no, but he wanted to try something new. He wanted _her_ to chase _him_.

As casually and soberly as he could manage, he stepped away from confessional and said, “Well, guess I should be heading out. See you next week, maybe,” then turned around and proceeded down the hall.

Feet stepping and seconds passing, Sandor cursed himself for the game he was playing, until he finally heard that pretty voice shout out, “Wait!”

He came to an abrupt halt, closed his eyes to a spinning world of darkness, and tasted victory. 

Sandor turned around and watched the girl approach. “Forget to wish me a better day?”

She smiled larger that time. It was so easy to make her smile. Too easy. “No. I mean, I do want you to have a better day, but I wanted to ask..." Sansa stopped in front of him, a proper distance apart for a sept girl, and began to play with her necklace. "What were you going to say to me earlier?”

_There it is. You remembered. You want to live fully, don't you?_

Sandor squinted at her, acting confused. “When?”

Eyes fell, cheeks blushed. “Before service...by the Stranger.”

He was torturing the poor girl, and all it did was make his cock yearn for her. Sandor gave a shrug. “I don't remember, girl. Sorry."

“Oh," Sansa mused, looking so disappointed, "alright.”

“Is that all?”

“Actually, no." She looked up at him, and was she... _licking her lips_? “I was wondering if you wanted to pray with me.”

The words were innocent, but the black rum made them sound filthy. “You want me to _pray_ with you?”

Sansa nodded with a coy little smile. “Yes, I always pray after service.”

 _Filthy, fucking filthy._ “For how long, girl?”

“I usually pray for an hour.”

“An _hour_?" Sandor swayed to the side, cursing the rum. "That's a...long time to pray."

Sansa didn't seem to notice his tipsy state, as she twirled a lock of her pretty hair around her finger. “It will go by fast."

“I hope not.”

That didn't only earn him a smile, it earned him a laugh. A _flirtatious_ laugh. The little bird lowered her book from her tits, so seductively. “So, is that a yes?"

"Yes," Sandor said, not hesitating.

Another smile, another giggle, another flirtatious laugh. "Did you want to pray inside the sept?” 

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “Where else?”

“There’s a bell tower just across the plaza with smaller altars of the Seven inside. It's usually empty once service lets out, so we wouldn’t need to be quiet over there.”

He stumbled backward, not because of the rum, but because of her words. The words sounded filthy because they _were_. _She_ was filthy.

 _She's not talking about praying at all,_ Sandor realized, as he regained his balance. _Bronn was right, for once. This sept girl probably does like it up the ass._

Sansa tilted her head to the side, knitting her brows. "Are you alright?"

He eyed her hungrily. “So, you want to pray loudly with me? For an hour?”

More giggles, each screaming _fuck me_. “Well, we can't be _that_ loud. And if you have somewhere you need to be, we can pray faster.”

His cock swelled.

_Seven hells. Seven fucking hells._

Sandor quickly rued his impulsive decision to jack off inside the confessional. He should have saved it all for her, but how was he supposed to know she was deceiving him the whole time? Gasping when he cursed, claiming she volunteered to live fully, wearing a _purity ring_. He looked at the rainbow band on her delicate finger and watched it shimmer. This girl was a goddamn professional. The little bird was only a mirage.

 _She wants to fuck in the **bell tower**_? _After speaking with me only three times? What would Dondarrion think?_

Amused, a smile dangled on Sandor's lips, until he realized that someone else had already corrupted her. That infuriated him, it even made him sick, envying whoever had the pleasure of teaching the girl how to sin. Sansa was corrupt already. His job had been done for him. He should leave her alone...

Sandor gazed at her pink lips. Two words were perched there.

_Destroy me._

He could still do that. Why not? Did he have a condom? He snorted out loud at the thought. _D_ _runk as a dog, fuck me_. Of course he didn't have a condom, only an empty flask and a lighter. Was his role of playing the penitent already over? He was mirage too, and it was time for her to learn. 

Sandor looked her up and down, sinfully.

_My better day._

He took a step to the side and gestured down the hall. “Lead the way, girl."


End file.
